


(Please Don't Die) Any Other Day

by Aibhilin



Category: One Piece
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Execution, Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Gol D. Roger, Mentioned Suicidal Gol D. Roger, PTSD Buggy, Panic Attacks, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28935069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aibhilin/pseuds/Aibhilin
Summary: What-What would he have told his past self, had he had the chance to, he wonders?“He won’t die on your birthday” is the first thought that comes to mind at that and he hiccups.It’s true, though.If he could have, he would have told himself-from-a-year-ago exactly that.Just that.“Not on your birthday, he won’t die on your birthday. The marines have given out a set date, haven’t they? He will make it past your birthday, to that fixed date in September they’ve scheduled that execution of his for.”
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Buggy, Buggy & Gol D. Roger
Kudos: 15





	1. I'm here, now. (Where are you?)

**Author's Note:**

> The bulk for this one (aka 6 whole k of words) has been written on the 22nd of January, although it's first been started on the 16th (I only wrote 1k that day, tho).
> 
> Hope you'll like it.

“Hope dies last” they say

When the wind blows and gales speak

Peace isn’t forced; but found.

* * *

His feet brought him to the marketplace almost on autopilot, with nary an input of his own to guide them there.

On the other hand, how couldn’t they know the way there? Having been there, walked that same path, once before already, on that day, that intense day of misery-

 _A year ago_ , it’s been exactly a year ago, on the dot.

A year has passed, since that fateful day.

Closing his eyes once he has ascertained he won’t run into anything or anyone on his way for the next ten steps at least, he slows down a little bit.

Coming to a halt in the middle of the cobblestone street that hasn’t changed at all, hasn’t changed _in the least_ – not that Buggy truly expected for it to change in a year’s time, but it would have lent credence to the fact that time has passed, after all, he’s grown older, too, ever since – he raises his head slightly and opens his eyes again.

Blankly, he’s staring at the blue, blue sky. Not a cloud is in sight.

Tears, that’s what’s close to the surface, at the view of the edges of the familiar rooftops he’s stared at not even four hundred days ago. Shuddering a breath, he concentrates on that, on the simple act of breathing, for now.

What-

What would he have told his past self, had he had the chance to, he wonders?

“He won’t die on your birthday” is the first thought that comes to mind at that and he hiccups.

It’s true, though.

If he could have, he would have told himself-from-a-year-ago exactly that.

Just that.

“Not on your birthday, he won’t die on your birthday. The marines have given out a set date, haven’t they? He will make it past your birthday, to that fixed date in September they’ve scheduled that execution of his for.”

At the same time as it’s reassuring to know that now, it’s been terrifying, back then.

Everything has been terrifying, during that period of wild uncertainties.

And the only one that had helped Buggy, that had been Shanks.

The redhead should’ve been here, now.

Shanks should’ve been here, but somehow, _somehow_ , he isn’t.

~~Because Buggy had told him no, had said no when he’d asked if he would join his crew.~~

That’s why he’s not here, not in Logue Town, a year after the day that-

One of them has fled as far away as he can and the other has stuck close; Buggy wonders what that says about the two of them, now that they’re not attached at the hip any longer.

His eyes have grown glassy, as he keeps regarding the rooftops and how they run downwards together, closer together the farther down his gaze falls until he’s looking at the opening in the street up ahead and to the marketplace and the square beyond that.

It’s a good thing he’s stopped, he feels.

His legs seem like they might buckle at any given moment and had he been walking still, it would have definitely caused a scene.

Buggy prefers to remain in the background, for this day.

Prefers the quiet, the calm, the darkness of the shadows in which he can hide-

Just for this day.

For this one day, he would like to be a background figure, unimportant in the grand scheme of things, not in the least thought about by anyone in power, not hunted for his origins or the fact that he’s dared be an apprentice to the Pirate King himself, never mind that he had little choice in the matter back when he and Shanks had been picked up-

Buggy would very much like to stay anonymous, for today.

Good thing he’s dyed his hair, for this exact purpose.

His nose might give him away, yes, but with the blond hair on top of his head? People would look twice, especially with the noble’s clothes and the long, dark cloak he’s donned for the occasion.

~~It’s a disguise, so what? No one ever said those were out of the question and besides, it grants him some safety, some security and he’ll remain under the radar, so there.~~

~~The Rayleigh in his head should shut up, the man hasn’t factored in his continued survival since that fateful day, after all, hasn’t had a say for a year by now.~~

~~No way is Buggy letting the tiny voice in his head give his opinion on his choices any longer, not when it sounds like their ex-Vice-Captain.~~

Underhanded though his chosen methods to stay hidden and unseen might seem, they do the job.

Swallowing down a gulp, Buggy considers the rest of the way: the marketplace isn’t as far away as it seemed at the start of his walk there and now that he can actually _see_ the entry to the accursed spot _where the Pirate King had_ -

 ** _had_** -

where _that_ had happened, he’s stuck.

Inexplicably, he’s stuck, his feet refusing to take another step.

His stomach is churning unpleasantly and there’s a knot in his throat.

It’s- that place isn’t as far away any longer. And Buggy begins doubting his original decision to come here at all.

Mouth slightly open so as to better be able to take in air, he steps to the side, out of the way of some carriage making its way down the street from somewhere behind him, although his eyes do not see it, do not properly focus at all on the commotion, the people.

They are turned down, further down, instead, until they land on the very cobblestones that make up the base of the road.

That’s. Easier to focus on, the very groundwork that the street rests upon. A hundred hours’ work must have gone into their correct alignment, surely. The stones look worn down in some places, obvious ones, where the wheels of carriages often traverse them.

Ah, that one over there almost looks like a face.

That thought brings him back to the games they used to play _where Shanks would_ -

The redhead would play with him and _win_ and-

Shanks is-

_Not here._

Not with Buggy, not at Buggy’s side, at all.

Scrunching his eyes closed, he feels tears threatening to escape and fall and wills them back, wills his eyes to behave – there’s no way in hell he’ll start crying in broad daylight in the middle of a busy street leading up to a crowded marketplace, from the sounds of it.

Whistling a breath through his mouth, he focuses on that, again, and feels his body sway a little in place.

* * *

He’s staring at a cup of coffee that’s been placed in front of him on the table next, pensive.

Last year, this time around, he’s stared at candles in front of him on a table, trying, willing – for his father figure, his mentor, not to die.

“Please don’t die on this day, please don’t die today, please not my birth-“

Buggy can clearly and accurately recall the words which went through his head that day.

Back then, he’s been anchored, not floating anywhere atop the sea water, somewhere on the waves, out on a ship, but **_anchored_** , stranded on an island not too far from the East Blue, just on the other side of the Calm Belt.

Somewhere nondescript, where neither Roger’s allies nor his foes could find him – and Shanks had been there with him, right at his side.

Praying, thinking, _hoping_ for a miracle to come true.

And he’d known, rationally, back then already, he’d known – he’d known that Roger wouldn’t die on his birthday.

The marines weren’t that meticulous in their research of their ages, nor of their birthdates.

Instead, they’d opted for a date far away – and yet too close, far too close all the same – in September.

When he’d been sitting in front of the candles, four of them arranged in a tiny circle, the lot of them keeping the two boys warm and comfy in the little hut atop the tiny island that wasn’t much more than a simple rock jutting out of the sea like so much rubble did, he’d thought to himself that-

If anything, his ex-captain could do him the favour of not dying on his birthday, of all dates to choose from.

There had been the mundane worry that – his illness could’ve taken him, he hadn’t seemed too healthy last time he’d seen him – he could’ve wasted away in a nondescript cell in a marine’s prison stronghold somewhere.

Hadn’t he been taken to Impel Down upon capture? “Capture”, hah. Buggy still doesn’t believe in that word one bit.

Buggy doesn’t think it’s been an “arrest” at all, not in the least because it had been Garp – Iron Fist Garp! – who’d allegedly made the capture.

Instead, he thinks – he has an inkling, that is to say, – that his ex-captain had given himself up to the marines. (Buggy would later, much later, be proven true, but what is that but water spilled down the drain, when Roger’s life had been cut short already?)

The clown had been sitting in close proximity with Shanks, with four candles put in front of them, the only light in the room lightening the dark corners and his heart and –

Giving him hope.

For once.

For one, long day.

For that sole day he’d held out hope.

Had given it to the air, had spoken his fears aloud, only for Shanks to give him a hug and for him to break down in tears, once more.

How could he not have?

It had been his birthday on the line, his ex-captain’s life and his birthday both!

The least his ex-captain could’ve done was provide him with the certainty that he wouldn’t die, that day.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, Roger had probably believed the marines when they’d told him that they’d execute him on that day in the future, that fateful day in September, when-

His head had rolled, at last.

His head had rolled, but not before speaking those fateful words that would-

That would kick off a veritable stream of pirates out for gold, out for the One Piece on the Grand Line, hidden somewhere on-

Raftel.

What a joke.

Buggy laughs bitterly at his own thoughts.

These days, the weather is by far sunnier – as is his disposition, usually.

On any given day, he can be found scheming, with a smirk or a grin or the like on his face.

Yet, that day.

That one day of the year.

That one day, he reserves for himself and-

His grief.

His sadness.

His heart that tears itself out anew every single year ever since-

Ever since Roger died.

And the Roger Pirates were no more.

Were officially only a band of misfits.

In a society that’s quickly demonizing them.

Not only demonizing but also _hunting_ them.

Actively hunting them to the farthest reaches of the world,

to islands such as the one that Buggy and Shanks found themselves on that fateful day.

That island had been a godsent, truly.

Buggy’s still not sure how they’d found it.

How they’d found it in the first place, it was this well-hidden.

But that doesn’t matter, does it?

What does it matter if they chanced upon finding the one place the marines would leave be until-

Until they left it, really.

Shanks and Buggy left it together, still. But Shanks isn’t here, with him, today.

Not today, out of all days.

The redhaired teenager had instead chosen to-

Chosen to run.

To run to the farthest corners of the world.

To the farthest corners with a crew that’d act as a willing shield for his grief-

And isn’t that poetic that it’s the most fearful, the most anxious out of the two of them, that’s stayed?

Stayed and confronted his grief head-on, despite his misgivings and fears and terrifying _loneliness_ scratching with its paws at the corners of his mind-

Isn’t that telling?

He’s.

Breathing deeply, he needs to focus himself, once more.

Centre himself, to regard the wisps of the coffee steam rising up from his cup.

Languidly, almost boringly, they slowly rise up, rise up in white-and-grey wisps of air.

They’re dispelled just as soon.

They’re mesmerizing to watch.

Buggy can gradually, sluggishly, feel himself tune back into the happenings that he’s present for right now.

There are people talking around him, chatting about trivia. This and that is discussed – normal, daily thoughts, that float away like so much empty air.

Someone’s shouting further up the alley, probably a shop owner praising his wares.

All around him there’s the faint aroma of coffee, drifting through the atmosphere to grace his nose with its presence. It’s a welcome scent, for it reminds him that he’s not there, right now, not in that hut, impatiently waiting for midnight to arrive until he can _blow out the candles_ -

Blow out the candles and think-

“Thank God did Roger not choose”-

Not choose this day-

But did he?

Did he choose not to die that day?

The marines could’ve easily chosen that day for him, everything could’ve just as easily been switched up, the whole timetable been rearranged to better fit their agenda.

The crowd would’ve not minded either way. They’d have been there, jeering and cheering for the King of Pirates to die. To be killed and die like the legend he’d been.

And he’d been a legend! He’d been larger than life, larger than Buggy, much larger and bigger than he could ever hope to become.

Buggy is a leaf in the wind, compared to that man.

Even Silvers Rayleigh, the Dark King, is still larger than life.

More imposing figures have rarely been seen in the world.

Not that Buggy envies them for that. He’s not jealous at all of the position his captain had put both him and Shanks in by taking them on as apprentices – a humble job, in the grand scheme of things, certainly, but his enemies clearly didn’t think so.

No, to them, they were threatening beings.

Possible recruits to the fold, potential heirs to the title of Pirate King.

When all that Buggy ever wanted was a quiet life, a life as a small-time pirate, somewhere in a non-threatening Blue, out in the wide, wide world.

He’ll have a crew, he’d create a crew by himself, with his own hands, if he had to – one that’s trusty, loyal and crazy, just like he is. Not the kind of crazy that can be found in New World Pirates or the kind that’s been ever-present in the Roger Pirates, for all that they’d been strong too.

No, that kind of crazy can go off the dep end, for all that Buggy cares about it.

Buggy cares not for the kind of crazy that is easily taking risks at though there are no repercussions anywhere in sight, no consequences there to think of either.

He wants a crew, wants a family that’s _his people_. His people, who get him and his anxiousness, his fear of the inevitable, his terrifying limb-locking fear of pirates that are stronger than he is.

They’ll look up to him, he thinks, cradling the mug of coffee in his hands. It’s slightly warm still, though most of the vapour has left the air surrounding it already, denoting it as slightly cooler than it had been earlier.

Gotten lost in his thoughts, has he?

Nothing new there.

No, nothing new at all, he sighs.

After all, it’s been a year.

Since then, it’s been a whole yar.

The sun’s turned around the world they’re living on and it’s gone around and around for a whole year long already.

Life’s gone on.

Buggy’s made do.

On his own, he’s done the best he can.

Shanks is somewhere, right now, he thinks to himself quietly, in the safe confines of his own mind.

Doing whatever the hell a new captain does. He’s read it in the papers – the crew that the other cabin brat is assembling looks menacing, to be sure.

Menacing and loyal, although Buggy won’t put his hand into fire for that yet.

He’ll have to see for himself, sometime in the future.

“Five years, Buggy. Give me five years.” and “We’ll meet again.” play on and off on a constant repeating loop that he cannot escape from in his head.

Those words are as fateful as Roger’s had been.

As fateful as Roger’s, back on that day when he’d dissolved the Roger Pirates, and then again, on that day when he’s kicked off the “ _Grand Golden Age of Piracy”_.

Buggy doesn’t know if the marines have changed the name yet, but that first, ridiculous, most silly of notions has stuck with him ever since he’s heard speak of it about a year ago.

That’s been silly, to hear.

Really, truly, incredibly silly.

Just the thing that Roger would approve of.

Would most likely laugh about, with his mouth all wide open like he’d done-

Like he’d _allegedly_ done back on Raftel, and then again when they’d gone back to collect both Buggy and Shanks from that island shortly before the last island on the Grand Line.

There, he’d laughed too, laughed with his mouth wide open and with huge belly laughs coming from his stomach.

Those were the days, eh?

Buggy smiles a tad nostalgically, at the thought.

He feels old already, although he’s not even in his twenties yet.

That’s not supposed to happen, is it?

To feel old before one’s time is even so much as a sixth over and done with?

Roger had been well over forty, Buggy thinks.

Well above the age when one has children – and yet.

And yet.

He’d taken in both cabin brats as though they were-

A though he cared that they were-

As though they were his-

His.

His kids.

His boys.

They’d certainly felt like that.

Their captain, their mentor had cared about them more-

More than anything else.

Yes, he’d been suicidal. Taken risks.

He’d been crazy, after all, what else was he to do?

But he’d also cared.

Cared deeply, with that big D heart of his.

Cared avidly, passionately, about them, their health and their lives.

They hadn’t- they hadn’t been made for the hard, tough life that’s that of a pirate on the Grand Line, never mind the one of ones in the New World. But he had cared, nonetheless.

And Buggy’s thankful, for that.


	2. I've made it this far. (Why's there more?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had they caught him, had he escaped a day later-
> 
> He doesn’t know what he’d have done, what would’ve happened.
> 
> What, indeed, would have happened to Buggy? Former cabin brat, cabin boy, apprentice to the Roger Kaizoku?
> 
> He’d have been executed as well, no?
> 
> Died right there in that square, where his former captain had met his end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for: Graphic depictions of Canon-Typical Violence.**
> 
> This part has been written on January, 22nd.  
> Hope you'll like it.

"Distract me" I say

With sea water in my eyes

At last, I can see.

* * *

His thoughts are all over the place, today, aren’t they?

Ah well. Better get this thought about early on.

So he can cry with a clear mind later on.

He _will_ cry. He knows that already.

Nothing for it, this day he’s sad.

There’s, surprisingly, not much one can do about that, when they already know how the day will go, can one?

The day shall pass him by as any other, although this time around, it shall be spent submerged in misery on top of all the nondescript uselessness that he goes through on the daily.

It’s nothing important, nothing interesting, nothing to see here, go and head on with your day.

Head on to your normal, imperfect lives, you onlookers who are curious about Buggy – but who do not know, do not share in the grief, at all.

Go on and do your daily duties and tasks, enjoy the after hours, when things are done and the end of the day is in sight.

When the work is done and the workday has ended, you shall laugh and drink and cheer with colleagues gathered around your tiny tables – just like this one, on top of which still rests his coffee, he remembers dimly.

Then you can laugh and gossip like the gossipmongers that you are, and be glad your lives aren’t over yet.

Be glad your lives aren’t done yet, have no finishing line in sight anywhere on the horizon _at all yet_ – and aren’t bound to end anytime soon or in an untimely death, anyways.

Be glad and celebrate your meagre lives, you onlookers, you jeering people of the past.

It is not their fault, Buggy knows.

All he can feel right now is indifference towards the everydaymen, the ones who, in the light of an execution of a potentially historical bigger-than-life figure to be watched, reacted with cheers and jeers.

It’s not their fault, he thinks.

Not when everybody and their children and grandparents would have gathered at the square that he cannot see from where he’s sitting, fortunately. Not from here, not from this side street where he’s been sitting and sipping at his coffee for the longest time now.

The day has barely passed him by, the hours fleeting – and the coffee has long since grown cold.

He’s nonetheless paid for it and until he drinks it – finishes it, that is – or more people than can be comfortable seated by the lonely waiter enter the café, he won’t be driven off, he knows. This coffee isn’t one frequented by a bunch of people, thus it’s easy to get lost in thoughts and drift off mentally.

It’s easier than it had been back during the Edd War, Buggy knows. He’s been there, done that, after all. Done that and all its shenanigans and survived it, to top things off.

Mentally, he’s detached – thinking back on the proceedings as he can barely, in shreds and pieces, remember them, as he’s puzzled them together from the scraps of memories that he could still remember once the horror had passed and he could think reasonably, logically, once more.

It had been a horror to live through. A terror that he could still dimly feel in his bones, that’s settled and is there to stay, embedded deeply in every fibre of his being.

The fright had gone through his body in spazzes.

There’s a distinction to be made here, for the fright that he had gone through and the real panic that had been kept at bay by his captain.

For it had been none other than his captain – Captain Roger – who’d stood tall in the face of the danger, in the face of all the other pirates who’d come for his head and that of his crew – and said, sure of his words and unshaken by all but the slightest breeze, “I shall not let you win. If you hurt one of mine, you shall reap what you sow.”

Or something the like. Buggy cannot quite recall the exact phrasing any longer.

Nor can he recall the exact date it had happened, either.

Does it matter any that he can’t?

That he can barely picture together who’d even been there, been present, all this time ago?

There’d been the Rogers obviously, and Buggy in-between them all, hidden in the folds of Roger’s coat to one side, with Shanks on the other, clutching to the man’s cloth in terror and excitement, both.

Until he’d found out what war meant, until he’d found out how much hurt it would bring, how many people would die and lose their lives in a useless, senseless bid for violence – there had been excitement in there, too, he knows.

Buggy’s ashamed to say, but he’d been excited for the War to start, before it did.

As he wagers most soldiers are – they’re manipulated into being excited for the action to start, the proverbial spears to fly, the pistols to shoot – and the adrenaline spikes in their bodies, they’re ready to start, ready to begin, ready _for the carnage_ -

The carnage that none of them had seen coming, none of the newcomers to the war had, at least, Buggy’s sure.

It’s frightening, the speed with which one gets used to violence on the Grand Line, acquainted with it like it’s an intimate partner that one can expect to meet every other year or so, invites for a meal every other month or has coffee or tea with every other day, if one’s not careful.

That’s- concerning.

Or, at least, it would be, if he’s so much inclined as to find that worrying.

Instead, Buggy keeps to the East Blue.

Much less hassle that way and he’s rid of the Celestial Dragons too, for the most part. The only kingdom that he’s got to avoid is Goa Kingdom on Dawn island and Buggy knows well where that’s located, for it’s at the same time also a favourite of Garp’s.

Garp’s vacation spot every other month, it feels like, to him.

That’s not cool.

And he steers clear of it, whenever he can.

Buggy’s not suicidal, no. He doesn’t want to get thrown into Impel Down, doesn’t want the guard to put seastone handcuffs on him – and he’s heard of their entrance ceremony, he’s in no hurry to have his hide thrown in there, no thank you very much.

He can do without the added stress that would bring.

Yes, he could do without that at all.

Thanks very much, with a pretty bow on top.

He’ll remain free and bound to his own whims and likes and dislikes, some of which he still cannot believe he’s following.

Such as the whim that brought him to Logue Town barely a year after his Captain has been executed.

Now, that’s _Concerning_ , with a capital letter.

It’s certainly out of character for the usually quite fearful, taciturn young boy.

Isn’t it?

* * *

The distraction proves helpful, he thinks, when he finds himself haggling with the marketplace people on the docks next, before they carry their wares off to the main square to sell them there later.

They sell him a fish that he will cook himself later on, some jewels and some stolen goods and a few Beris are exchanged with the man that sold him that fish – and another one sells him a band she _swears_ to the heavens was worn by the King of Pirates himself – even up until he was executed.

It leaves a bad taste in his mouth to buy that one and he hurries off as soon as he can once he did.

So, people are selling trinkets of his former captain’s now, are they? It has cost him a good few Beris, but only because he could tell she was lying straight through her teeth, that one, and has found out about him knowing that in short order, too.

He wanted that trinket gone, though, out of the market, so buying really was the only thing he could do with it, wasn’t it?

Thus, he’s running around with a band of the former Pirate King’s in his pocket now and he doesn’t know what to do with it any more than he knows what to do with himself.

He’s put off going to the marketplace, to the square where they’d killed his former captain, for long enough, hasn’t he?

How could he hide this much? How much longer can he go on without going there? Heading straight to that place of his past trauma-

And have the terrifying nightmares return to his head, once more.

For, he knows already that there’ll be _hell_ to pay, should he head in that direction mentally unprepared, on a stupid whim – like he’s doing right at this very moment.

That’s no way to lead his life, is it? Constantly shunning the place, simply because his captain had been beheaded there?

The dreams and nightmares filled with the squelch of-

The _thump_ of the head when it hit the floor-

The stupidly floating-down rain that poured down from buckets it seemed like-

He’d cried bottles of water, wagons full of seawater, back then.

Cried his eyes out, cried until they dried out and he couldn’t cry no more.

He’d cried back then already, cried for weeks and weeks and nights and days.

And he’d run. He’d run because now that his captain wasn’t alive any longer? He’d been free meat for anybody to grab. It had become “a free for all”, a good kind of find, him, a floating duck upon the water of a sea that was growing smaller by the day.

Buggy had barely been able to escape the nightmare that would’ve awaited him back on that island where Logue Town is situated. Had they caught him, had he escaped a day later-

He doesn’t know what he’d have done, what would’ve happened.

What, indeed, would have happened to Buggy? Former cabin brat, cabin boy, apprentice to the Roger Kaizoku?

He’d have been executed as well, no?

Died right there in that square, where his former captain had met his end.

Oh, he still has nightmares about the could-have-beens, the would-have-beens, whenever he thinks of what happened.

Great.

The image is back.

Stuck in his head as it had been a year ago.

Thinking back, he hadn’t gotten rid of the nightmares for the longest time, had sat around with them for longer than a month back then.

And his days? They’d been filled with fright – terror of what the night would bring.

None of the daily happenings had even come close to what he’d been dreaming about in his nightmares.

It’s not fun, it wouldn’t – it won’t be fun at all, knowing that would and could happen, again.

Calling that to the front of his thoughts, once more.

What could happen to him, as it almost had.

Thirty plus days of nightmares.

Nightmare fodder, simply because he’s dared venture back to that one place that’d without fail provide him with new-old nightmares to then milk dry. His imagination would run rampant for more than a month, if he lets it.

It’s certainly proven capable of that, before.

Buggy fears himself, sometimes even more than he fears his former captain’s enemies.

Foes, tangible enemies and people he can grasp? Those he can deal with. Senseless, baseless nightmare fodder freely provided on a silver platter that he dares hand himself?

No use fighting that cause the more he fights it the more it sticks with him.

He’s found that out the hard way, last time.

Buggy’s no newbie to nightmares.

And no newbie to what living corpse he’ll look like when he has them.

Last time has been unbearable, nigh intolerable if not for the presence of Shanks nearby.

Shanks, who’s stuck to him through thick and thin, through hell and high water and who’s-

Not here, now.

Not here, today.

Who’s chosen to run, instead.

Turn tail and run the other way, instead.

Run as far away as his legs and a ship could carry him.

That’s how things have gone down, in the year that Roger hasn’t been there.

It’s not been fun, it’s not been games at all and Buggy personally cannot wait for it to end.

To have an end, a finishing line, somewhere in sight in the near ( _hopefully near_ ) future.

Sometime in the near future that he knows – that he sees coming whenever he pictures himself with a crew.

Buggy’s better now.

He’s survived his lowest points.

He’ll survive this too.

Come out the other end, alive.

But this time, he’ll gather himself a crew.

Like he promised he’d do, to Shanks.

Last time he’d seen him.

He’d promised to find himself some people – a crew, a family – who’d be loyal and who’d care for him.

Oh, he’d care for them in return, naturally, it goes without saying. Nonetheless, he’d need to find them, first.

Find them and have them gather around him out of their own free will.

( _Somehow, Buggy finds himself doubting there exist such people out there_ )

( _But he’s promised Shanks and if anything, Buggy keeps his promises_ )

( _There’s something to believe in; and if it’s Shanks, he takes it_ )

( _ ~~Shanks is better than anybody, he knows~~_ )

( _ ~~Better than the Rogers were~~_ )

( _ ~~Better than Buggy is~~_ )

( ** _ ~~Where’s Shanks~~_** )

Shanks is-

Gone.

Not there.

Not here, with him.

And Buggy keeps going back to that one point.

Buggy’s… sure that, had Roger died a different way, at a different point in time – on the ship, mayhap, on the Oro Jackson with the whole crew gathered around himself and crying their eyes out but surrounding their captain one, last, time for his last journey that he’ll have to go on by himself and with no aide from them – but he’ll have died in their midst at least, surrounded by them-

he’d have gotten everything handed to him.

They’d have spoiled him rotten in the last few days, had he not dissolved the crew.

Had he allowed them-

Permitted them-

to accompany him, one last time.

to be there for him just as much as he’d done that for them –

He’d have died in the midst of friends, in their circle, with their hands on his, most probably.

With flowers.

Flowers and the gold and all the pleasures in the world surrounding him and smiling-crying faces that would have been blotched with tears from all the crying they’d have already done by then –

Surrounding him.

All around him.

Warmth.

Warmth that he chose to refuse.

Chose to avoid.

Instead, he’d given himself up – and for what?

For the glory of having the Pirate King executed in font of a nondescript mob of strangers on a nondescript wooden platform that’s been erected in a hurry-

Well, it’s been in his former hometown, at least.

The “ _Town of the Beginning and the End_ ”, it is now called, Buggy’s heard say.

What a facetious name.

What a pretentious, blustering name for such a silly title town.

Just this side of the Red Line and the people here think of themselves as important.

There’s not much differentiating between them and Celestial Dragons, Buggy thinks.

One is one step higher up, one level further away from the everydayman.

One more amount of gold to add to the reputation they’ve garnered already.

He’s sick of it.

No, Roger decided to give himself up to the marines – of is own free will, to say otherwise would be to spit in his memory.

But he wouldn’t have needed to, had he listened to his crew, listened to Buggy and Shanks or even just listened to Rayleigh.

Rayleigh should’ve had the most sway with their captain, being his Second-in-Command.

But not even he could’ve changed Roger’s mind, back then, Buggy knows.

Was frustrated as hell, when he’d realized it. And told Shanks.

Who didn’t believe it, at first.

Yet, he’d seen reason, soon enough.

And then after the execution, all those rumours about Captain maybe or not having fathered a child…

What’s it to the marines if he had? What’s it to them that he might’ve?

There might’ve been a brother to Buggy and Shanks out there -a brother they could’ve protected with their lives, after everybody else from the Roger Kaizoku had gone their separate ways, off to their hidey holes and not resurfaced since – and they could’ve kept him safe, him and his mother.

But no.

Baterilla had happened and – while Buggy had only heard about it in the news, he knows Shanks had gotten to learn more, had stuck an ear to the grapevine whenever he could’ve, to judge the hunt that’s still ongoing that had still been ongoing back then, the hunt for the apprentices or anyone to do with Roger at all.

Heck, back then, even shopkeepers had been known to somehow, _magically_ disappear from their stations and shops – taken out of their lives as though they were mere dolls fulfilling a need in the grand design that’s been approved of by the Celestial Bastards.

Buggy grimaces derisively. No way does he let that stand if he can – but he can’t prevent it from happening now that it’s already going down.

Has already been going on for far longer than what he could’ve unearthed yet.

And he’s only a teenager, barely in his mid-teens at that.

What could he do that the Roger Kaizoku can’t?

Bullet’s gone to Impel Down, last he’s heard.

They couldn’t even break him out, what could they do about the unimportant shopkeepers, civilians really, who decided not to become pirates when the World Government is this much against you living your life out in peace?

That’s no way to live a life.

Neither is it a prospect Buggy can wipe off the table just like that.

He’s got to start somewhere, right?

So, better start with facing his demons from the past that keep haunting him, it is.

He’s dawdled enough, he feels.

There’s nothing for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading!
> 
> And, because I couldn't leave this story on a sad note, apparently: the next part shall come out on soon, time permitting!


	3. That's Your Hand. (See Me Take It)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The execution platform is still standing.
> 
> Those are the steps that Roger has stepped on last, the ones that he had to scale to get up there, to be brought up there to his own execution and, absent-mindedly, Buggy thinks, “Did he know?” He must’ve known he’d been walking to his death back then. What’d it feel like, to walk these steps and know you’re heading to your own death, to see your last sight, hear your last sounds and feel your body kneel for one last time.
> 
> To have that view across the marketplace square be the last thing you see.
> 
> The people in the crowd the last thing you _**feel**_ -
> 
> Buggy can’t-
> 
> Buggy can’t breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this part has been written on the 30th of January - the ending was written today, 07.03.2021.
> 
> Enjoy, dear readers! =^_^=

Past sunshine blinds me,

They're strangers now; a cat appears-

"Friend", you say, "Come with."

* * *

With hesitation, reluctance in his very being, in every fibre of his body, he sets foot on the marketplace he’s not entered since a year ago.

That’s it, then.

This is it.

There’s no turning back.

He gulps in fear.

Eyes wide, he’s dazed already.

There’s no way he can focus on any one thing right now.

First, there are marketgoers to his right, then there are shop owners shouting praises for their wares to his left – and he’s standing right in the middle, where he’s gaping, mouth wide open at the wooden creation that’s-

Still there.

The execution platform is still standing.

Those are the steps that Roger has stepped on last, the ones that he had to scale to get up there, to be brought up there to his own execution and, absent-mindedly, Buggy thinks, “ _Did he know?_ ”

He must’ve known he’d been walking to his death back then. What’d it feel like, to walk these steps and know you’re heading to your own death, to see your last sight, hear your last sounds and feel your body kneel for one last time?

To have that view across the marketplace square be the last thing you see.

The people in the crowd the last thing you **_feel_** -

Buggy can’t-

Buggy can’t breathe.

Can barely draw breaths, they come in in gasps.

The next moment he’s outright gasping, out of breath, he‘s not sure how to get his lungs back into functioning normally again, _this isn’t how it was supposed to_ -

No.

His stomach plummets to depths unknown.

He can’t have a breakdown right here, in this mouth of the alley leading up to the execution platform, so he uproots his feet and quickly dives into the crowd to his right, hides his face with part of the newly-bought shawl he’s pulled over the lower side of his face so that nobody would recognise his mouth and nose and facial features at all.

They can’t know he has returned to the spot where he’s-

where he’s witnessed-

he’s _seen_ -

he’s **_felt_** -

That’s no way to get caught, that is, – and he can barely breathe, barley keep the panic at bay, the anxiety cursing through him, leaving him jittery and with trembling limbs almost stumbling over one another as they take him towards a place in a nondescript corner of the plaza where it’s slightly quieter than the other ones – the one where a market stall owner is preparing his wares more than he is praising them at the moment, having obviously taken a break to rearrange them to his liking.

That’s better, he’s got a bit of a calm little bubble to work with here and can calm down his rapid breathing and the beating of his heart, too, while he is at it…

There’s something… about that shop owner that makes him pause. That gives him reason to be-

Maybe not wary.

But aware of his surroundings, once more.

Well, might as well use the adrenaline cursing through his veins for something productive, mayn’t he?

So he goes and, as soon as he has his lungs back to halfway normal working order, says, “Hello.”

A hesitant nod and a “Hello.” he gets back, with the man advising him next, “Don’t move any closer to that table here, yeah? I’m gonna be moving some stuff there and I can’t have you be in the way.” before going back to organising his wares.

The very nonplussed and no-nonsense air the other is exhibiting is-

Calming, really.

Buggy makes sure to stay well out of his way and settles down to the side of the stand, the one side where the stand conveniently obscures his view of the platform and as far away from the spot the man has pointed out as he can be.

If he has to be a coward, he can be a fully frightened little lamb.

Who is there to impress? The shop owner? _Yeah_ , right.

No way is he giving that any more effort than to move out of the way of the man moving his wares.

Then, he sees what the man sells and he is intrigued.

That’s-

“That’s a deck of cards. Jinxed ones, too.” Buggy remarks absent-mindedly, for the other to occupy his mind more than his preoccupation with his anxiety-riddled brain does. That’s a task and a half, he feels, so he thinks he’s justified in distracting himself with mindless observations that do not enhance nor derive from the experience of his life any.

Buggy doesn’t notice much else other than these sharp eyes focus a little bit more on him and what he does with his hands now that he’s said that.

“May I?” Buggy asks when he feels he needs something to occupy his hands with – something mindless, some task that’s useless and repetitive, with motions he can track with his eyes, preferably.

The man agrees with a nod when he realises what Buggy’s asking and that he’s willing to pay for it.

Buggy leaves him an earring – made of gold – in exchange for the use of the card deck that’s on level with his face on the table of the stand besides which he’s sitting. Taking the card deck, he opens it and empties it of the cards into his other hand.

The motions come to him in a mindless routine – and he knows and is grateful for the habit of shuffling a card deck that he’s developed in his time on deck of the Oro Jackson, the Roger Kaizoku’s last ship to journey with.

That had not been an easy thing to do, getting some quiet time away from both Roger and Shanks – and from Rayleigh, too. When he felt in the mood to see you or where you are, you did not escape the First Mate aboard that ship. Neither his gaze, nor his Haki.

Buggy would know, he’d tried often enough.

The shuffling comes easy to him, born from an ease of long hours of practice, back on a ship that sways and where he can hear the seagulls and the waves and the sea breeze sing-

A song that’s long since taken him time to remember.

It’s an old song, one that Roger can recall more easily than Buggy can-

 _Could_ , really.

When he’d been alive.

Back then, Roger had been big, in his eyes.

Bigger than life, larger than anything Buggy had ever laid eyes on.

And he’d had a skill, an ability to hear the sea breeze sing, the very air – sing out to him.

In joy or in anger or in anxiety – Buggy can’t know.

But he’s heard it, Buggy knows that.

Heard it and-

Chosen to ignore it, really.

Chosen to ignore it with his very being.

With ever fibre of his being, he’d chosen to be executed on land, instead.

Not to be given to the sea at all, not be given back to the sea that had housed him for the better part of his life-

But to the land.

To wherever the marines then decided to bury him.

_Did they bury him?_

If so, Buggy hasn’t been able to find out where.

Hasn’t found out if they even went and buried him at all.

Probably wouldn’t have wanted a grave to be visited by any of the later Pirate-King runups at all.

That would’ve become a shrine and the very World Government would’ve been against that.

Would’ve stood against that with every man, Buggy knows that for certain.

They’d have ordered a Buster Call on the island that would house the late Pirate King’s grave.

Nah, Buggy doesn’t think that they buried him close to Logue Town. Otherwise, the town wouldn’t be standing any more.

Or would it?

Maybe they were using psychological warfare – and outwit their enemies by not obliterating the island but choosing to indeed bury Roger here, that would be the irony of the century.

Buggy highly doubts that is the case.

Doubts it indeed, when he hasn’t found hide nor hair about such a burial having taken place at all.

That’s no manners at all, to bury the late Pirate King in anonymity.

An anonymous grave site, not visited by anybody and forgotten by the Marines.

That would suit them well, wouldn’t it?

Suit them well, but Roger would be turning around in his proverbial grave, if they’d given him one.

Dying in fame and with reputation to boot only to lie as a corpse in a grave that’s unmarked.

For a pirate? That might as well be a fate worse than death.

He won’t fall into oblivion, his famous last words made sure of that, Buggy thinks.

But that doesn’t distract from the fact that-

The Roger pirates won’t be able to say goodbye.

No last goodbye is to be had for their captain.

Ever.

At all.

Had Roger- had his captain, had their mentor chosen to be buried in the arms of his crew-

They’d have made sure to tell him their goodbyes and laid him to rest on the sea, in the waves floating towards the last great adventure as would probably become a widely-accepted custom once they’d done that.

That’d suit him far better, would have suited him far better than the farce of a “burial” he may or may not have gotten.

There’s no way of telling, the marines are notoriously tight-lipped about anything to do with the late king at all.

And Sengoku’s no help for finding out more on that, and neither is Garp.

Their whereabouts have been unknown for a good time after the execution – they had gone and were probably living it up, cheering for a good deed done that they could now rest their whole career’s advancement on.

That’s one way to celebrate a Pirate King going out of his life, isn’t it?

Ah, Buggy would never want to become a marine, wouldn’t want that for himself at all.

The shuffling grows quieter the more his anxiety calms down from his latest sweer off into panic attack territory.

Good, that’s taken care off and avoided, for now.

“Oi, come back!” he dimly hears, some distance away from him, and when he raises his head, he comes face to face with a mighty tiger staring him down.

To be fair to the tiger, it did look intimidating as any wild cat present at a town marketplace would, but Buggy can’t bring himself to be more up in arms than to stare wide-eyed at the feline. He gets the feeling that if the cat could’ve, it would’ve pouted at his non-reaction.

But truth be told, today has already yielded the worst result possible for Buggy – having a breakdown at the Pirate King’s death place is… not the best thing to have happened to him.

And having a feral tiger stare at him from up close now? That doesn’t come close to topping the earlier breakdown, it doesn’t even scratch at the feeling’s position as Buggy’s number one of things that shouldn’t have happened, ever.

If Buggy could turn back time to the moment of him entering the square, he would’ve.

If Buggy could turn back time to the point before Roger’s head hit the floor, _he would’ve_.

If Buggy could simply turn back the dial of time to where he was still with the Rogers, underneath Roger’s coat, clutching at the cloth together with Shanks-

He would’ve.

Would’ve given anything in the world, to be able to do that.

To be allowed to do that.

But, alas. Time is not as kind.

Other than a slight twitch at the thought, he doesn’t move and is surprised when all of a sudden the feline’s huge face – abnormally huge face, that is – is shoved out of his line of sight by a guy that’s… not much older than he, really.

That’s a teenage boy, that is.

With a… weird haircut on his head, to be honest.

Buggy stares.

 _Stares_.

And stares some more.

The sequence of actions doesn’t start making sense at all, even after he’s blinked twice.

And blinked a third time, for good measure.

The boy doesn’t move closer than to try to usher the cat away from Buggy’s hiding spot, pouting and admonishing it under his breath all the while.

He barely makes it budge an inch, though, after the initial surprise has worn off.

Making a cat that big budge even that much still takes some strength, though.

The boy’s stronger than he seems, eh?

Buggy can relate.

The blue-haired teenager simply regards them blankly, while the boy’s getting a better grip on the feline’s fur to tug the cat away at the nape, muttering obscenities that he probably thinks no one catches – but Buggy does.

And, unbidden, a smile comes to his face at the profoundly creative profanities coming out of that mouth.

That’s – a few of those he’s last heard out of _Roger’s_ mouth, shortly before Rayleigh reprimanded him for using such language in front of teenagers – barely men though they’ve been already at the time (the Rogers certainly never did leave them be without tasks that were more suited to bigger men sometimes), he nonetheless saw it his duty to at least instil somewhat of a respect towards the language of swears that Roger was certainly not inhibited – but more than qualified – to use.

The teenagers – Shanks and Buggy both – however were not, at the time, according to the first mate.

Nonsense, that.

Double standards, if Buggy has ever seen those.

But Buggy’s opinion had been a non-issue, an utterly disregardable one, in the grand scheme of things.

He’s not the least bitter about that, he’s not.

And here is someone who-

Who’s now doubling back and-

Sitting back on his heels, crouching down in front of him.

“Hi,” the boy says, “I’m sorry if my cat interrupted your quiet time. It does that sometimes, budge in on other people’s business without asking first.” He gets a scrutinizing look, then “My name is Cabbaji, what’s yours?”

Name.

The boy had just asked him for his name.

Arms still over his knees, loosely so, in a half-embrace that Buggy uses to brace himself more than to shield himself from the world, he considers the request.

Is he already up for making new friends?

Now that Shanks isn’t there – well. Why the hell not?

Why the hell wouldn’t he be, now that he’s by himself?

“I’m Buggy.” he mutters quietly and is surprised when the other boy caught what he said and lights up in response.

That’s – a weirdly easy to please sort of person, isn’t it? Huh.

Mayhap Buggy can find it in himself to care about more people than the Rogers, more people than Shanks – _more people than Roger_ – once more.

Tentatively, he smiles. And is rewarded when the boy smiles back.

“This is tiger king. He doesn’t like you calling him anything else, so that’s his name.” the boy adds when the big feral cat once more wants to be in on the conversation and goings-on by nudging the boy aside to have a better look at Buggy, itself.

It sniffs him, once. Twice. Then it seems satisfied with its find.

Buggy stares a bit, still, although the shock of seeing a feral tiger here is wearing off fast.

Logue Town isn’t the last town before the Grand Line for naught, after all. Weirder things have been known to happen and appear, this side of the Grand Line.

“I’m looking for a good home for Tiger King. Wanna help me find one? You look like you know lots of good spots to go.”

Buggy… does, doesn’t he?

With his cloak having slid down once he’d sat down, his hat as well as his nose are very visible, once more.

And there’s still the pack of cards in his hands that he’s kept shuffling – absent-mindedly and not at all with the intention of letting go of it any time soon. The action is soothing.

Then, the tiger moves forwards again, towards Buggy and – Buggy _freezes_. Cabbaji is tugging at the cat’s fur, trying to tug it away from the teenager, but he might as well have been a fly on the wall, for all that the cat lets itself be moved by that.

The blue-haired teenager is watching with slight apprehension as the cat moves over him – his legs straighten themselves out out of reflex, out of instinct more than anything else, his arms letting go of them, – and, satisfied, it lies down all over his legs, face to the right, away from the stand, as though _guarding_ Buggy, guarding Buggy from danger- warning him and ready to defend him from anything that might approach the boy.

That’s.

Unexpected.

Buggy blinks, bemused.

Then looks up at the boy, Cabbaji, and they blink in unison at one another, before glancing back at the cat.

“Huh.” Shoulders falling in a relaxed way, the boy settles down there, in front of the two of them, his cat draped all over Buggy’s legs like a- like a mere housecat, if one were courageous enough to say so out loud.

Buggy’s left hand tangles itself in the soft fur of the feline, giving skritches almost without conscious thought behind the action.

The boy smiles down at him, then admits, “Haven’t ever seen ‘im this comfortable before.” With a poignant look at Buggy, he draws Buggy’s attention back to his person again and the conversation at hand, before adding, “So, you seem nice?”

A pause, then he offers Buggy his hand, “Wanna be friends?”

For Buggy, that’s-

New.

Yet not-

unwelcome.

No, not unwelcome.

Not unwelcome in the least.

And Buggy weighs the pros and cons.

Weighs the pros and cons in his head and-

His heart has already decided for him, hasn’t it?

Heart lighter than it has been all day, he takes the hand.

Takes the hand and shakes it, accepts the budding friendship

and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> XD The notes to this were too hilarious not to share:
> 
> "Tiger as weighted blanket!  
> Buggy takes the hand that’s offered to him."
> 
> Yes, past self, cause today!Me knows exactly how you imagined these to go...
> 
> Liked it? Disliked it?
> 
> Leave me a comment, if you feel in the mood to~
> 
> Thank you very much for reading this ficlet of mine!!!
> 
> Have a lovely time of it, wherever you are - Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter shall come out on the 31st of January.
> 
> A big thank you goes to [ScarletSorceress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletSorceress/pseuds/ScarletSorceress) for their help with figuring out the title! Go and check them out, they're a prolific writer also on AO3!!!
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!


End file.
